Nevermore
by Lolcano
Summary: Quoth the raven, or something like that. The war may be over, but the effects still last. Tibarn and Naesala struggle to come to terms with each other after the Phoenicis massacre.
Naesala was hovering above the ground. His large black wings churned the air so that he his feet was dangling just above the land. Just above, but not touching.

"Won't you come down?" said Tibarn, in a faux polite tone of voice that fooled nobody. Even if he had meant it to be polite (which he had not) it was too harsh, too bitter to be anything but mocking .

Tibarn, for his part, was planted solidly on the ground, looking up at his fellow bird king with a cool disdain.

Naesala just flew higher. From his vantage point in the skies he could see the torn and ravaged lands of what had once been Phoenicis. The ravens of Kilvas were nothing but efficient, he observed, his lips twitching into a cold, ironic smile.

"Get down, crow," growled Skrimir, "Or I will come up after you,"

 _Good luck with_ that, thought Naesala scornfully. He was not afraid of Skrimir's threat, but he began to float downwards anyway. Yet just before he touched the ground he hesitated. Even he knew his refusal to land was ridiculous, due to some irrational method of reason, which he himself knew was irrational, he felt that if he did not land he could not be connected to the events that had taken place there. As long as he could fly above it, as long as he could look down at what had taken place with a lofty disinterest, regarding the events as some small unimportant ones that you see from afar, it seemed almost unreal. As if the wide, limitless sky separated him and the events that had taken place so that he held no responsibility for them.

 _But I_ am _responsible for them_ , he though bitterly, and with that the foolish denial that had borne him upwards died and he dropped onto the ground. And suddenly there was nothing between him and the cruel, terrible massacre that he himself had initiated. There was nothing between him and his own treachery and the murder of hundreds of hawks. Everything was as real and solid as the cold pit-marked ground beneath his feet. He felt cold.

He laughed.

"Well, what do you want?" he asked his fellow laguz with a light laugh, smiling scornfully, as if it didn't care.

Skrimir snorted angrily and would leaped upon him if Ranulf hadn't held him back. Tibarn didn't say anything. He just stood with quiet, outraged fury that was more fearsome than any words. When the hawk king finally spoke it was quiet, little more than a whisper, but furiously.

"You know, Naesala," he said, "You know very well."

And with a sweep of his powerful arms he indicated the ravaged countryside, still littered here and there with dead bodies that had been forgotten. There were woman weeping in the trees, holding their sons and daughters close, whose piercing wails could still be heard across the countryside. The few remaining laguz were stared blankly at the sky, wondering why they had managed to live while their friends had not. The ground was littered with graves. The people of Phoenicis had long given up hope of burying each dead in proper graves, and instead salvaged the bodies as best they could and dropped them into large mass graves.

The once proud nation had become a country of sorrow and woe, and he, Naesala, had been the cause.

Oh yes, he knew.

He knew very well. He could hear the people weep, the country crying out in one as sorrow.

But well, it wasn't his country.

It was terrible, pitiful, and yet he was not sorry.

Because Kilvas was safe.

Naesala knew he was a terrible person. He was selfish and cowardly and thought only of himself (he considered Kilvas to be part of himself). He felt like he should be sorry, that nothing could justify such a vile deed, but every time he played over the events in his head, trying to find another way out, he couldn't. This is what had to be done, and even Tibarn understood that.

Tibarn knew about the Blood Pact.

But even so there was unfinished business between the two nations, too much bad history, wounds too fresh and scars too deep and something had to be done about it. They had to resolve this somehow, and quickly, in order to move forward to the future.

But what did Tibarn want him to do? Bow down and weep out a touching apology? Grovel on the ground like a dog? Because Naesala would do it, if that's what the hawk king wanted. He didn't care. It was all meaningless anyway. Nothing could atone for his sins.

Honour, pride, he didn't care anymore. It didn't matter.

Nothing mattered, except Kilvas.

"Look, I'm sorry –" he began, but Tibarn cut him off.

"Don't lie to me," he said sharply, "Not today."

Naesala said nothing. Could he even speak if not in lies? Maybe the only way to avoid them was to remain silent. Tibarn glared at him ferociously, as if daring him to speak.

"No," Naesala began, "you're right," for once telling the truth, because like it or not, his future was tied together with that annoying hawk king. Still, out of habit he hid behind that self-confident, arrogant smirk. It was a necessary smirk, because it hid his true feelings. And it was necessary to because he could lie, lie, lie all day if he needed to, and feel no shame about it, but telling the truth was a very different matter.

"I'm not sorry," he said. "It's terrible, but I did what I had to. I regret that it had to be this way, but not sorry. I'll apologize if you want me to, and I'll even understand if you hate me forever, but I will never change what I did."

And somewhere along the way, despite his will, his cool smile slipped for a moment. It was quickly returned, but it was too late, Tibarn and seen it. It was the sincerest Tibarn had heard from the Raven King in a long time. In truth it made him uncomfortable.

"Hmph," he grunted, crossing his arms and looking away. It was his turn to speak, and he did so gruffly.

"Well, you're right too, I can't forgive you. I can never forgive you."

His eyes turned cold as he looked around at the ravaged countryside.

"And I won't."

"Well that's that then," said Naesala, launching himself into the air.

"No," said Tibarn quickly, urgently, as if he had something very important to say. Naesala paused, lightly falling back down to the ground and waited.

Nothing came.

There was nothing to say and both bird kings sensed it. They had reached an impasse. They could go no further and yet they had to go further, for the sake of their countries. But how?

How could one atone for the murder of almost all of a nations' able-bodied warriors? How could such an act ever be justified? Could their wounds, so deep and painful now, ever heal? What was one supposed to say to a traitor, a traitor who would probably betray them again if the circumstance demanded it?

And yet for the sake of both their countries, for the sake of a still unknown future that stretched out as wide and limitless as the lofty blue sky above them, full of hopes, full of dreams and wonders, for the sake for of that they could not remain enemies.

Tibarn pressed his lips together, deep in thought. There was nothing to do, but something had to be done. Silenc e reigned.

"Well," said Ranulf suddenly, shattering the icy quiet.

"This is…" he began, his face breaking into a wide grin that was completely inappropriate given the circumstances, "….hawkward."

HA HA GET IT?

* * *

 **I WROTE THIS STORY JUST FOR THAT PUN. HAHA. ha...**

 **Okay more seriously now. This is a story I actually wrote a long time ago and had posted for a while. But I took it down in a sudden fit of unconfidence because sometimes I feel like garbage. But I was rereading my old fanfics today, and it's actually not bad? So I thought I might as well post it again.**


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